The Grand Ballroom of The Imperial Palace shimmered under thousands of crystal chandeliers. Delhi's elite — politicians, industrialists, and celebrities — mingled in their finest designer wear, laughing and raising glasses of champagne as if the city didn't bleed every night under their polished shoes.

On the raised stage, Advait Singh Raichand stood like a king who owned the darkness itself.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and devastatingly handsome in a tailored black three-piece suit, he looked every bit the successful philanthropist tonight. His sharp jawline was clean-shaven, his dark eyes unreadable as he listened to the host praise his "generous contributions" to women's welfare and child education.

Only a few knew the truth.

He was the Shadow King — the man who ruled Delhi's underworld with an iron fist dipped in blood.

And then she walked onto the stage.

Kiara Mehra.

Dressed in a bold red saree that clung to her curves like liquid fire, her long wavy hair cascading down her back, and fire blazing in her hazel eyes. The investigative journalist who had been a thorn in his side for the last six months.

The entire hall fell into a stunned silence as she snatched the microphone from the host without permission.

"Mr. Advait Singh Raichand," her voice rang clear and sharp through the speakers, "or should I say... the man who controls half the illegal arms and trafficking routes in North India while hiding behind charity events?"

Gasps erupted across the ballroom.

Advait's expression didn't change. But his dark eyes locked onto her with an intensity that could burn cities.

Kiara stepped closer, holding up her phone, showing leaked documents on the projector screen behind him.

"These are proof of your involvement in the recent smuggling of young girls from Rajasthan. You don't save women, Mr. Raichand. You destroy them. You are not a savior. You are a monster."

The hall exploded into chaos.

Camera flashes went wild. Reporters who had been invited started live streaming. Powerful men shifted uncomfortably in their seats.

But Advait only stared at her.

Not with anger.

Not with hatred.

With something far more dangerous.

Obsession.

Kiara walked straight up to him, her heels clicking against the marble stage. She stopped barely a foot away, tilting her head up to meet his towering height.

"You think throwing money at orphanages will wash the blood off your hands?" she spat, voice trembling with righteous fury. "You think the world doesn't see what you really are?"

She raised her hand.

SLAP!

The sound echoed through the silent ballroom like a gunshot.

Advait's head turned slightly with the force of it. A red imprint bloomed on his cheek.

For a moment, the entire world seemed to stop.

Kiara's chest heaved, her eyes blazing with defiance.

"I hope one day someone makes you pay for every sin you've committed," she whispered harshly, only for him to hear. "I hope you rot in hell, Advait Singh Raichand."

She turned to walk away.

But before she could take two steps, a large, calloused hand wrapped around her wrist like a steel shackle.

Advait pulled her back with one smooth motion, spinning her around until her back was pressed against his chest. His breath ghosted against her ear, low and dangerously calm.

"You have no idea what you've just done, Kiara Mehra."

His voice was velvet wrapped around a blade.

Kiara tried to yank her hand away, but his grip only tightened. Not enough to hurt — but enough to claim.

Around them, security moved, but one sharp look from Advait froze them in place.

He leaned down further, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as he spoke so softly only she could hear:

"I've watched you for six months. Every report. Every late-night investigation. Every time you risked your life chasing monsters."

His thumb traced a slow, possessive circle on the inside of her wrist.

"And tonight... you finally looked at me."

A chill ran down Kiara's spine.

Before she could respond, Advait released her wrist and stepped back, his face once again a mask of cold indifference.

But his eyes promised hell.

Kiara stumbled off the stage, heart pounding. She quickly made her way through the crowd, ignoring the whispers and flashing cameras. Her sister Meera met her at the exit, looking panicked.

"Kiara, what the hell were you thinking?! Do you know who he is?!"

"I don't care," Kiara replied, breathing hard. "Someone had to say it."

They rushed into the waiting car. As the vehicle pulled away from the venue, Kiara finally allowed herself to exhale.

She didn't notice the two black SUVs that silently followed them into the night.

Two Hours Later

Kiara stepped out of the shower in her apartment, wrapped in a towel, still buzzing with adrenaline. The slap kept replaying in her mind. She didn't regret it.

Not even a little.

She was just about to change when the power suddenly went out.

Her heart jumped.

"Meera?" she called out. Her sister was supposed to stay the night.

No answer.

A faint creak came from the living room.

Kiara grabbed a vase from the bedside table and slowly moved toward the door.

The moment she stepped into the dark hallway, a large hand clamped over her mouth from behind. Another arm wrapped around her waist like iron bands, pulling her flush against a hard, muscular chest.

She struggled wildly, but the man didn't even flinch.

A familiar deep voice whispered against her ear, sending ice through her veins:

"Running away so soon, Jaan?"

Advait.

"You slapped me in front of the entire world tonight," he murmured, his breath hot against her skin. "Now you'll spend the rest of your life paying for it... as my wife."

Kiara's eyes widened in pure terror as a cloth pressed over her nose and mouth.

The last thing she saw before darkness claimed her was Advait's face — calm, possessive, and burning with a love so dark it could consume the world.